It's Not What It Looks Like
by jzou70
Summary: Beatrice Prior was America's sweetheart, the idol of the nation, until a misinterpreted incident has tabloids accusing her of being a heroin junkie. And, to make matters worse, she can't even remember what happened. Lost and confused, she leaves behind the Hollywood scene and heads back to her humble roots to figure out exactly who she is behind all the makeup and drama.


**A/N:** Hey guys, I, surprisingly, don't have much to say. I just want to point out that I like to start my stories with a prologue that sets the scene for the plot. Not much happens action wise, but I like to make them more intense than the rest of the story (as you would know if you read my other story, Put to the Test), if that makes any sense. Speaking of my other story (since we can't post chapters of just author's notes), I should really be updating, but I can't find a way to move the plot along at the right speed (I'm too wordy, as you may have noticed), so I am avoiding it and writing this instead :)

Also, I don't own Divergent, or the characters, just the ideas for this plot (though there are so many stories similar to this that I might not own that, either).

Anyways, enjoy!

* * *

**Tris's POV**

My mind is hazy and I can't think clearly. Fresh air. That's what I need to clear my head. I stumble towards the door but I don't make it far enough. My knees collide with the carpeted ground and I hear faint laughter, but the sound is far away. So far away…

The edges of my vision are starting to blur. In a desperate attempt, I lunge for the door. My hand grasps the cool metal of the doorknob and I feel triumphant. I throw open the door and bright light fills the room. It warms my face. For a moment my mind clears, but something isn't right. The light is too bright and too close. The faint laughter has been replaced with a roar, a jumble of voices competing for attention. I backpedal, but I move too quickly and I lose my balance. I think someone may have tripped me. Suddenly, I find myself staring up at the ceiling. Faces—too many of them—fill my vision. The light is still there, but it has now multiplied, flashing at me from all directions. Black dots fill my vision. A dull ache spreads through my head, from the back of my skull to the front, and throbs in time to my heartbeat.

The chaos around me is jarring, overwhelming my senses, but in a moment of unexpected clarity, I realize, I have been set up.

Then, I fade to darkness.

* * *

When I come to, I find myself in a neat, white room. There is a door to my right, a TV mounted in the left corner, and a table overflowing with flowers, cards, stuffed animals, and chocolates directly underneath it. I am lying in what appears to be a hospital bed. As is sit up, my head throbs, but I can think clearly again. The light in the room—actual sunlight this time—is comforting; as is the silence.

In the chair beside me, my mother stirs in her sleep but doesn't awaken. Her clothes are disheveled and her face, while relaxed, looks years older. I instantly wonder what could have possibly happened to make my meticulous mother appear this way. I reach a hand out to move a strand of hair from her face. My mother has the prettiest blonde hair and delicate features. Even though her age is starting to show, she still looks beautiful. I don't realize how cold my fingers are until they come in contact with the warmth of my mother's cheek. Instantly, her eyes open and lock with mine. I feel a pang of guilt for waking her, but it is pushed away when she leans forward and wraps me in her arms.

"Beatrice, we were so worried!" She buries her face in my hair—hair that I am told is identical to hers. "How are you feeling? Let me find the doctor and we can get you checked out." She lets go of me and hurries out of the room.

Before my mind has even comprehended what happened, she is back. A young man follows closely. "This is Dr. Black. He's going to run a couple tests to assess the damage to your skull. Depending on the severity of the internal bleeding and swelling in your brain, you may have to stay in the hospital for up to another week." My mother has always been the pacifier in the family, but this time, she doesn't sugarcoat the information.

Hoping to get it all over with, I turn to face the doctor. His eyes have been trained on the ground this entire time, and, when he finally looks at me, I can tell he is star struck. I am immediately annoyed.

"While I run these tests, I'm going to ask you a couple questions about what happened. This will serve two functions. It should help the police piece together the situation and test your memory at the same time. You have been unconscious for over two days, so don't be surprised if you can't remember much. I'm going to connect a few electrodes to your head now. This is a new type of technology that should eliminate the need for a full-body MRI scan. It limits the exposure of gamma rays to the swelling in your head. We ran a test earlier while you were unconscious, so I'm just checking to make sure nothing has changed for the worse." Despite the confidence in his words, his hands shake as they press the cold wires to my head. "Can you describe for me the situation at the Hayes residence two nights ago?"

I rack my brain for the memories, but all that surfaces are brief flashes of sensations. A burning liquid, a trio's laughter, blinding lights, but nothing useful. I can't even recall why I was at Peter's house in the first place. Shamefully, I shake my head at the doctor, "I can't remember anything."

"That is not unusual. For most patients with excessive head trauma, short-term memories do not come back for quite some time. In the most extreme cases, they may never be recovered." He gives me a pitying look. "But don't worry, you were lucky—or as lucky as you could have been in that situation. You landed on the carpet, so you only suffered minor bruising and a slight concussion."

He finishes attaching the electrodes and turns towards a machine to my left. His back is to me and I cannot see what he is doing but the next thing I know, the TV screen comes to life. I see a map of gray and black in the shape of a brain—my brain.

I am amazed by the complexity of the organ. The doctor presses a button and the screen zooms in on a section in the back of my brain, near the brain stem. The temporal lobe, I recall from my year of advanced Biology.

He indicates towards a small mound of gray, "This is where the swelling occurred. It appears as if it is slowly going down, so you should be able to leave the hospital soon." He presses another button and the picture disappears from the screen, but the TV is left on. The local news anchor is holding up a picture of a girl with wild, unfocused eyes, unhealthily pale skin, and messy blonde skin.

I don't recognize myself until she starts talking. "It has been more than two days since Hollywood's princess, Beatrice Prior, was found unconscious inside the home of costar Peter Hayes's Beverly Hills mansion, but the rumors are still circulating. The most popular belief is that she overdosed on heroin, but that doesn't explain the slashes on her wrists. That's right, folks. Our—"

I turn my head and find my mother pointing the remote at the screen with an angry look on her face, but the damage has already been done.

The doctor interrupts with a nervous cough, "Would this be a bad time to ask for an autograph for my sister? She's a huge fan."

"Even after all this?" I ask bitterly.

"Well, we didn't find any traces of heroin, alcohol, or any other drugs when we ran a mandatory blood test upon your admittance to this hospital. And we all know how mass media tends to exaggerate the facts. I'm sure she'll understand." He gives me a wry smile and, despite my initial annoyance, I find myself warming to him.

"Sure, what's her name?"

"Susan."

I quickly compose a message and hand it to the doctor. After he leaves the room, I turn to face my mother. "What are we going to do?"

"It's hard for me to say this, sweetie, but I think you should take a break from Hollywood. Recently, the cutthroat environment hasn't been good for your health." She doesn't say it explicitly, but I know she is referring to the cuts on my wrist. I'm not sure how the news reporter found out, but of all the lies, that was the one truth. I hate that the tabloids found out about my weakness, my problem, before my own family did.

But my mother doesn't hold it against me.

"I think you should stay with my parents for the rest of the school year. Experience what a normal teenage life is like. They live in a small town off the coast of Florida, Holly Springs. You've never been there before, but I'm sure you'll love it. It's quaint." She continues.

Normally, I would cringe at such an idea, but nothing about my current situation is normal. Instead, I only have the energy to nod my head. My mother smiles faintly and rubs the top of my head in a comforting gesture.

My throat feels dry.

Unexpectedly, my mind conjures up a memory from Peter's house. I remember empty beer bottles, lots of them, littered across the floor. But none of them were mine. Jeering faces surround me and the crowd enthusiastically chants for a fight.

I gasp as a little piece of the puzzle clicks into place.

* * *

**A/N****: **There are a couple little things I'd like to add. First, I try to do the background research necessary to make the story/plot realistic and believable, but I am by no means an expert about any of these things, especially not medical terminology. If you see something that is wrong or doesn't make sense, I apologize. Please let me know (Review or PM me) and I will try to change it as soon as possible. Secondly, I chose a random town from the state that I currently live in and placed it in the state that I used to live in (I'm no good at coming up with names, forgive me). If Holly Springs, Fl actually exists and anyone is offended by my use of it, I'm sorry, I thought the name was pretty :)

So, what did you think? Questions? Comments? Suggestions? Feedback is always welcome!


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